


Light and Shadow

by iamtuxedomask



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:33:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26420437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamtuxedomask/pseuds/iamtuxedomask
Summary: The days are for Idril. But the nights ... the nights do not belong to her. Tuor was beginning to discover that nights in Gondolin were for exploring a deeper, more carnal desires he was only just beginning to understand.
Relationships: Maeglin | Lómion/Tuor
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

The days are for Idril.

When the sun is shining and the sky stretches above in an endless blue, Tuor would follow his lady love through the rolling green meadows, watching her gather flowers to weave into delicate crowns to place upon his head. Her laughter delights him; her smiling face and sweet voice soothe him; her happiness and humour fill him with life. She loves him, and he basks in the warmth of her love as if she were the Sun.

But the nights – the nights did not belong to her.

The nights filled Tuor with equal parts dread and anticipation, for reasons he was only beginning to fathom.

As soon as the sun began to sink behind the western hills, Tuor could already feel the familiar hunger begin to well up inside him, and his limbs grow cold from anticipation. He bid Idril farewell and watched her climb the steep steps that led to her tower, followed by her handmaidens. He gave her a reassuring smile, and a few last words of goodbye before they parted for the evening.

Perhaps it would be easier for him if he could follow her up to her chambers, spend the night in her company – but they were not yet wed. He was only just beginning to court her, and her noble King father would never allow a tryst out of wedlock to occur. Tuor had the rest of the evening to himself, and it was this idleness that he feared.

It was this idleness that would leave his mind to wander ... and where his mind wandered would usually lead him to the Forges.

Twilight gathered. Stars were beginning to peek their shy heads out of the darkening sky. Tuor stood by the entrance to Gondolin's mighty forges, hesitating. By day, they would be roaring and thriving with life; noisy with the sound of hammers against anvils as steel and silver took shape, the hiss of heated metal, and the air would smell hot with molten iron ore, but they were now silent and abandoned for the night.

All except for one corner, where the light of a lantern burnt steadily and cut through the gloom in a warm, golden glow. The small chiming sound of hammering came echoing from within.

Tuor strolled towards this light, all the while wrestling with cold, conflicting feelings in his heart. _I should not be here_ , he thought, biting his lip til it hurt. _I should stay away_. But his feet kept moving forward, until he saw the familiar figure sitting by the workbench, working away at what seemed to be the finishing touches to a dagger.

"You’re working late,” Tuor said conversationally, by way of greeting.

Maeglin did not look up – he seemed to have been expecting Tuor's visit. "This," he said, indicating the dagger, "is to be your wedding present."

Tuor winced, despite himself. Of course, his eventual marriage to Idril was inevitable. In was no secret in Gondolin that their princess was enamoured with their Edain guest – and, he would admit, he was very fond of her as well. He knew it would be a very pleasant union, and he was glad for that – under the unpleasant circumstances that their relationship turned sour, leaving the city was not an option.

"It is to be a dagger unlike any other," Maeglin continued without any emotion, as if he were talking about an arrowhead or a horseshoe. "My lord Uncle wishes to gift you a blade made from the same ore we used for his sword."

Tuor raised his eyebrows. "The ore that glows blue when Orcs are near?"

Maeglin nodded, and continued to chisel a fine, white line delicately down the blade.

"I never figured out how that works," Tuor said, settling himself down on a low chair by the same workbench. "Why blue, though? Why not silver like starfire, or the red-gold of flames?"

Maeglin stopped his carving. He set aside the delicate awl and hammer he had in hand and, with faint annoyance, he asked in a low voice, "What are you doing here, Tuor?"

Tuor met Maeglin's dark eyes. They were dark, so dark, like little wells of night, glistening in the flickering light of the lantern. They were so unlike Idril's eyes. Hers were the beautiful sighing blue of open summer skies ... but Maeglin's dark gaze was shrouded and full of secrets. Tuor could feel that gaze seem to prod at his mind, inquisitive and probing, without revealing any secrets of its own.

Tuor shook his head. He placed his head in his hands and murmured, "I don't know."

"I do."

Tuor looked up again, saw the lantern-light fall on Maeglin's proud face, his loosely-braided black hair that fell over his shoulder. He rose from his place at the workbench, and stood by Tuor.

"I know why you're here," Maeglin said, his voice a low purr. "I can see into your mind – you're like an open book, Tuor."

Tuor drew back, ever so slightly. Maeglin's ability to see into the minds of others unnerved him, just a bit – but for now, he sort of welcomed it.

Swallowing slightly, Tuor murmured, "Then I do not need to tell you," he said, and his dry voice almost sounded strained in his ears. "You already know why I'm here – what I came for."

And he reached out, moving to place his arm around Maeglin’s waist. Maeglin drew closer. He loomed over where Tuor sat, his fair face, hovering inches above Tuor’s, silhouetted against the light of the lantern-flame. His breath was light and warm on Tuor's cheek; and a few stray hairs that escaped his loose braid lightly brushed against Tuor's skin.

“You’re having the exact same thoughts you had when we first met,” Maeglin murmured, his hands drawing up Tuor’s arm to rest on his shoulder.

All at once, Tuor felt his heart quicken and a burning rise to his face – and it became quite hard to breathe. That all-too familiar frustration began to rise within him. _It has been so long, too long,_ he thought, biting into his lip.

He could see a smile part Maeglin's lips. "Oh Tuor," he murmured softly, "your thoughts right now would make dear Idril blush."

Tuor seized Maeglin's wrist. In one swift movement, he'd pushed Maeglin to the workdesk, pinning him by his wrists against it. Tuor was the taller one when they stood; and he glared down at Maeglin, his eyebrows furrowed in anger and desire.

"Idril must never know," he hissed through clenched teeth, so close that his lips brushed Maeglin's as he spoke.

"Yes," Maeglin said, his own voice a smoky whisper, "she musn't," and he closed his mouth over Tuor's, kissing him so deeply it was as if he were trying to draw the life out of him.

Tuor lifted his hands from Maeglin's wrists and now drew them over his shoulders, pulling him in closer, his left hand cradling Maeglin's face as they kissed. Maeglin made a soft moan of protest – then they drew back and kissed again many times over, hungrily. Tuor was pleased to see that Maeglin's appetite matched his own – the Elf was just better at hiding it.

Maeglin's braid had come loose and Tuor roughly ran his hands through the dark curls, letting them slide through his fingers, always surprised at how soft they were. He reached to undo the cord of Maeglin's apron and slip him out of it, swiftly removing his tunic soon after.

Maeglin was of slender build but his lean bare chest seemed carved out of marble, fair and sculpted with the defined muscle. Tuor ran his hand greedily down from Maeglin's throat down his chest, and Maeglin suddenly caught hold of Tuor's wrist – bringing Tuor's hand down to cup the hot mound of his arousal beneath the leather of his breeches.

Tuor let him lean against him as he massaged his groin slowly, hearing muffled, delicious whimpers against his ear, and finally Tuor slipped his hand down his trousers and felt Maeglin let out an involuntary shiver against him.

Tuor closed his hand over Maeglin's cock; felt Maeglin's nails dig painfully into his shoulder. He heard his counterpart growl a warning into his ear, but all of this only made Tuor's desire grow even more urgent. He slid Maeglin's cock from out of the encasing breeches; and, after one final brief kiss to his lips, Tuor got onto his knees, and covered Maeglin’s length with his mouth.

He worked Maeglin, back and forth, feeling fingers dig into his hair at the back of his head and hearing small choked cries of involuntary pleasure above him – until he tasted bitter saltiness flood the back of his throat. Tuor choked it down, feeling the remnants of Maeglin's seed spill from his lips, and he wiped his mouth against the back of his wrist impatiently.

Maeglin was breathing heavily now. Tuor stood up to admire the fine red blush spreading from the Elf's face down his throat, the tangle of his hair falling across his shoulders, all his prior cool-headed compusure gone. Yet, even with tears gathering in the corners of his defiant eyes, there was something still beautiful and proud about Maeglin – he was like the swords he so finely crafted: deft and swift and alluring.

Feeling impatient, Tuor spun Maeglin roughly around, until he was bent over the workbench.

"Bastard," Maeglin cursed in a furious whisper, and the pout in his voice was like a caress against Tuor's ears.

"You didn’t complain the last time," Tuor murmured, almost accusingly, while swiftly undoing the front laces of his trousers and freeing his hard, eager sex from beneath the leather. He spat into his palm and slid it over his cock, nudging its tip against Maeglin's opening and hearing him moan quietly beneath.

He took hold of one of Maeglin's arms and pulled it back, then entered him with slow thrusts that grew ever more urgent, groaning with the pleasure of it. Maeglin writhed and cried deliciously underneath him, and Tuor was beginning to get worried that someone would hear them.

* * *

The moon was but a silver sickle in the sky, its light thinly veiled by wisps of clouds. The stars were bright. And Maeglin's fair skin was a ghostly sort of beautiful in the pale light, glistening under a thin sheen of sweat, accenting the lovely blush that had risen to his face.

"You lasted longer than before," Maeglin said calmly, a light breathlessness still in his voice.

' _Before_ ' had been two weeks ago. It was the longest Tuor had gone between their little trysts, and he had been suppressing and fighting his longing since then. He'd thought he could have fought them off forever. But even in the light of day – even with Idril by his side – he could feel it tug at him, well up in his chest like a dam threatening to overflow.

He brought Maeglin closer to him. He could feel Maeglin's heart hammering against his own. "It's terrible, what you do to me," he murmured. He kissed Maeglin full on the mouth, thrusting his tongue between his teeth, hungrily drawing him in. "You are both my curse and my cure."

He expected Maeglin to make some snide, cutting remark; a scathing comment on the fragility and weakness of the Edain. Yet he was silent; his hand closed into a fist resting on Tuor's chest, and a deep colour rose to his fine Elven face.

"D-don't say things like that," he muttered in a hushed voice, drawing away. “Not to me.”

Tuor stared at him. Not only because Maeglin was exquisitely beautiful when he blushed – but also because he did not expect such a response. Maeglin turned away, and Tuor wondered if he had said something that touched his heart.

Maeglin turned, and slipped on his tunic. Without turning around to face Tuor, he said, "Tomorrow evening, at the hour of the sparrow. I will send the servants away. We will meet at my manor. Don’t be seen.”

Tuor did not say anything. He laced up his trousers, ran a hand through his disheveled, straw-blond hair, and exited the forges without another word.


	2. Chapter 2

Tuor remembered the day they had met.

It was shortly after he had arrived in the Hidden City. King Turgon, ever kind and hospitable, personally introduced Tuor to the members of his court: Ecthelion, Glorfindel, Egalmoth, Galdor … there seemed to be so many Houses, so many names of noble Lords to memorize. Tuor felt himself getting dizzy, overwhelmed by the splendour of the court, the dazzling nature and refined manners of its people.

“And this is my nephew, Maeglin,” Turgon said, benevolence and pride rising in his voice. “He is the head of the House of the Mole, Gondolin’s most skilled ore-miners and smiths.”

Tuor looked upon the Elf before him, and it was if he had been punched squarely in the stomach.

The Eldar were beautiful people, no doubt – they had fine and fair features that were much admired among the Edain. Yet while Tuor had met most of the fairest and noblest among them, he had not been so struck by their beauty as he did when he gazed upon Maeglin.

The Elven lord standing before him was dressed in flattering shades of grey and black, so different from the bright, dazzling colours of his peers. His frame was slender, yet there was strength in his shoulders, and a cool, easy grace in the way he carried himself. He had full, black hair that fell freely down his shoulders, framing his fair face.

Lord Maeglin stood with his arms casually behind his back. His expression impassioned and indifferent – but his eyes, those dark, dark eyes, they gleamed with the sharp glint of sunlight on a blade, hinting clever and unceasing thoughts, and Tuor found himself unable to look away.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Tuor said softly, his manner stiff, the automatic courtesies falling from his lips before he even realized he was saying them.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Maeglin replied, just as automatically, returning Tuor’s slight bow. His voice betrayed no emotion, but his eyes darted across Tuor’s face.

Tuor stared back, taking in the beauty of Maeglin’s features: his high cheekbones, his heavy eyelashes, his full, sensual mouth.

And in that moment, Tuor was struck by a sudden, invasive thought: _I want to kiss him._

Surprised by the suddenness and strangeness of his thought, Tuor drew back. Yes, Maeglin was beautiful, but the strength of his desire took Tuor by surprise. Yet he recognized his desire for what it was, and almost overwhelmingly relieved that nobody could read into his thoughts.

And yet … as Tuor allowed himself to be led away by Turgon, he noticed the way Maeglin raised an eyebrow curiously, staring after them, the ghost of a smile playing across his lips.

* * *

 _Hour of the sparrow_ – it was still early in the night, and the moon hung low in the sky as Tuor stood at the arching gateway of the House of the Mole, trying to quell his excitement with a long, deep breath.

No guards were posted in Gondolin – yet Tuor understood the importance of not being seen. He wore a dark sable cloak that seemed woven out of shadow itself, and was grateful for the clouds that shrouded the moon that night.

The noble court of Gondolin should never learn of him being here, of what he intended to do here.

The door opened silently. Tuor slipped inside, so swiftly that he all but stumbled into Maeglin, who had come to the door himself, having sent all the servants home early that evening.

For the briefest moment, they stood, faces mere inches from each other’s. The candle that Maeglin used to light his way cast their faces in a rosy, golden light, their expressions of mutual surprise illuminated in the glow.

But Maeglin seemed to gather his composure first. Calmly, he set the candle aside, and – without pause – seized Tuor by the lapels of his cloak to pull him in for a passionate, wordless kiss.

Tuor responded with equal fervor. He pressed himself tighter against Maeglin’s smaller form, almost pushing him against the wall, gathering the Elf in his arms, burrowing his hands in the dark curls of his hair.

Tuor’s moans were muffled against Maeglin’s lips. The Elf’s body felt so good held in his arms, and his scent – subtle and intoxicating, like musk and smoke and rain – overwhelmed Tuor. He broke the kiss to hold his companion close and breathe in that heady, familiar scent.

“I want you,” Tuor whispered, not caring of desperation he showed in his voice. His desire gnawed at him until it was almost a sort of agony. “I want you so badly; it’s terrible.”

“Hush now,” Maeglin said, his voice soothing, drawing back to cup Tuor’s pained face in his hands. In cool tones, he said, “Be patient. We have all night.” But then he kissed Tuor roughly, teasingly – and in that kiss Tuor sensed a raw hunger matching his own, and knew that restraint was something neither of them were going to show that night.

Without another word, they made their way to the bed-chamber.

* * *

Tuor watched in satisfaction as his cock slipped in and out of Maeglin’s mouth.

So many times, he had fantasized of this – waiting the long hours of the day in tormented anticipation, dreaming of night time, when he would finally indulge in the pleasure of Maeglin’s body; even Idril noticed he was being distracted. Tuor had excused himself early from Idril’s company, claiming he felt unwell, so she would not see how the colour rose to his face as he thought of all the things he wished to do with her cousin.

Tuor could already feel himself reach his peak. Gripping tightly to the hair at the back of Maeglin’s head, his cock trembled as he released his seed. Maeglin’s fine brow furrowed and he made a small moan in protest – stray fluid spilling from the sides of his mouth.

“You could have at least warned me,” Maeglin scolded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The sound of his affronted tones were like kisses to Tuor’s ears. He smiled up at Maeglin – meeting those blazing eyes, framed by loose dark curls … he looked even more irresistible in his vexation.

“I’m sorry,” Tuor apologized. “I couldn’t help myself.”

“I’ll have you make up for it,” Maeglin said, and rose above him and kissed Tuor, thrusting his tongue inside Tuor’s mouth so he could taste his own spent seed.

As they kissed, Tuor shifted out of his loosened clothes, kicked off his breeches. Then he gathered Maeglin in his arms and rolled him onto his back, so now he lay over the Elf. He broke the kiss to pull the thin white nightshirt from over Maeglin’s shoulders and began to softly rain kisses all over Maeglin’s bare, sculpted body.

Underneath his lips, Maeglin trembled deliciously, his skin soft and smooth and yielding, his muscles tense and defined. Tuor licked and teased at the buds of Maeglin’s nipples, appreciating the moans he made as Tuor bit playfully at them.

Maeglin held his arms over his eyes, almost as if to hide, but Tuor pulled them back.

“Don’t,” Tuor murmured, his voice roughened with desire. His hands had now wandered down to stroke the length of Maeglin’s stiffened cock, but Tuor’s eyes never left his partner’s face. “Let me look at you. I want to see you, all of you.”

Tuor gazed down at Maeglin, seeming to drink in the sight of him as if he were savouring fine wine. He gently, almost chastely kissed Maeglin’s brow, his collarbone. “I want to treasure you.”

Maeglin closed his eyes, letting himself get lost under Tuor’s gentle kisses. He heard Tuor reach across to the bedside table, and when he opened his eyes, he saw him uncork a small glass bottle of scented olive oil.

Wordlessly, Tour poured the oil into his hands, and warmed it between his palms. Maeglin watched, transfixed, as Tuor slid his oil-covered hands over his stiffened cock in slow, languid strokes.

His oil-soaked fingers slid across Maeglin’s abdomen. Face flushed and near-breathless with desire, Maeglin met Tuor’s questioning eyes, and silently nodded.

Slowly, gently, Tuor mounted him.

Maeglin’s face contorted in a mixture of ecstasy and anguish, his brow furrowing deliciously as he closed his eyes, knuckles turning white as he gripped the sheets in his fists. Small, sweet moans escaped his lips with each of Tuor’s hungry, urgent thrusts. Tuor almost felt drunk on the sight of it, watching transfixed as the blush rose beautifully from Maeglin’s chest to darken his face as Tuor entered his hot, shivering body.

Maeglin bit into his lower lip, trying to stifle the volume of his moans – if there were anyone passing the street beneath their window, they would have heard. But then Tuor held a hand cupped over Maeglin’s mouth, and against the palm of his hand, Maeglin’s cries were muffled as Tuor’s thrusts gained in intensity.

Maeglin climaxed first – his body shuddering, back arching, hands gathered into fists as they clutched desperately at the crumpled sheets. He sobbed against Tuor’s hand. The sight of his companion reaching his peak – cheeks flushed, composure broken, hair a tangled mess surrounding a face at the height of ecstasy – was Tuor’s undoing. He rode out the white-hot waves of his orgasm as they pulsed through him, ebbing away into utter bliss.

Moments passed before Tuor gathered Maeglin into his arms, caressing him. In a half-conscious, dusky whisper, he said what he said, every time after they were together. “The most beautiful,” he murmured, in a voice so guileless and tender it could almost bring a sob to Maeglin’s throat. “The most beautiful.”

And Maeglin wanted to hear him say it, over and over. Even as Tuor fell silent, Maeglin could still hear the echo of it in the man’s thoughts: _The most beautiful; the most beautiful_. It was a phrase that made no sense on its own; yet, being held in Tuor’s strong arms, the afterglow of their pleasure leading him into drowsy half-sleep, he knew it was how Tuor saw him. He had known it since the day they met.

* * *

Maeglin knew very well the effect he had on his kin.

He took mostly after his mother in appearance, and inherited her dark hair, fine features, and insolent good looks – yet he was also his father’s son. From Eöl, his heritage was subtler: he had his father’s dark eyes and quiet temperament, and a certain sullen, secretive allure he was aware that his mother’s people found irresistible.

They did not know he could read their thoughts. But he saw it all: their desire for him was as clear as day, from both elleth and ellon alike. Some stronger than others. But no one would give voice to their thoughts – while they desired him, they hid their lust in shame, and he could never muster anything beyond mild annoyance over their attention. After the grief at losing both his parents, he found he couldn’t bear to bring himself to care about anyone, or anything, beyond the clever smith-work of his hands.

When news reached his ears that an Edain had entered Gondolin, Maeglin’s interest was piqued. _Another outsider?_ And one of the Secondborn, at that. What’s more, this outsider claimed to be a champion of the Lord of Waters. He wondered what this person would look like

He did not expect Tuor son of Huor’s desire to show so nakedly on his face. The Champion of Ulmo gazed at Maeglin in an almost childlike fascination – and as Maeglin gazed into his thoughts, he was amused by Tuor’s simple desire to just kiss him.

And as Maeglin found the smile tugging at his lips, he noticed how finely-built this Edain was – tall, broad-shouldered, fair-haired, and eyes as bright as a sky lit by rain. _If you kissed me, I wouldn’t stop you_ , Maeglin found himself thinking, surprised by the thought.

He watched his uncle lead the stranger away. And for the first time in a long time, Maeglin felt something rise in his chest: warmth, curiosity ... and something else, something new he could not quite understand, just yet.


End file.
